


And Tell Us All About It

by raewise



Series: Kit Ashbourne [8]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Addiction, F/M, Headcanon'd Boone's background a bit, Minor Character Death, Part of a bigger series but can be read on its own, Past Abuse, Sex Work, Time Skips, but it's over pretty quick, implied PTSD, there's a brief anal fingering scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 14:07:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9610763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raewise/pseuds/raewise
Summary: Kit and Boone, and how their paths intersected.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just some bonus warnings: minor implied pedophilia in one line, the abuse tagged is between Kit and her old pimp, there is mentioned rimming but it's offscreen
> 
> If anyone's confused about Kit's sexuality, she's bisexual. She's in an open *sexual* relationship with Boone, but she's *romantically* invested in him 100% (the only exception is Christine Royce, who she is also in love with but not in a relationship with). There's no cheating; everything is consensual between the two of them.
> 
> Title from "Heretics" by Andrew Bird

**2262, age 7**

 

There’s a boy in her apartment, her age. He has knobby little knees and two parents. Mama tells her to watch him, make sure he doesn’t get in any trouble. Kit thinks maybe Mama’s getting paid to have her watch him, but she doesn’t say that out loud. She very briefly sees the boy’s mom, a worn-out woman with soft-looking blonde hair and glasses. Then, their mothers are leaving them alone for the evening.

“My daddy’s a soldier,” the boy says proudly. Kit wants to punch his teeth in. “He’s headed south, with the NCR.”

“Yeah,” she says as she chews off a hangnail. “That’s where they seen all them robots ‘n’ stuff. There’s tribes there, Mama told me.” She tugs on a curl that got loose from her ponytail. “I heard lotsa them tribals cuts off soldiers’ scalps and make hats outta them. Old Lady Margie said there’s a tribe that beat up little kids, fatten ‘em up, then eat ‘em. And there’s _thousands_ of ‘em.”

The boy, Craig, has wide, scared eyes. Kit feels her stomach roll uncomfortably. _She_ did that; _she_ scared him.

“I’m sure your daddy will be fine,” she says soothingly, holding his hand suddenly. He’s tanned, probably from traveling through the hot California deserts. His hair, dark brown and cropped short to his oval face, has highlights of blond from being sun-bleached. “Is he tuff?”

“Tuff?”

“Yeah, like… cool. Slick. What’s the skinny?”

Craig fiddles with the shoelace that’s wrapped around his hips as a stand-in belt. “Yeah. He’s tuff.”

Kit stares out the window at the street below. A junkie stumbles down the sidewalk and collapses in a pile of rubble. Kit draws the moth-eaten curtain.

“Hey,” Craig says, sidling up to her on the windowsill. He’s clutching a throw pillow to his chest, head hung so he’s staring at her crossed knees. “Where’s _your_ daddy?”

Kit clenches her jaw, letting her eyes slide shut. She doesn’t want to talk about Dad. She doesn’t want to think about where he might be. Mama doesn’t know if he left them, or if he was taken, or if he’s dead. There was no note the day he went missing. His stuff was where he left it, except for his shoes. It was like he’d just vanished into thin air.

“I don’t know,” Kit admits, standing so she can begin pacing the room.

“Oh,” the boy says, frowning at her. “Sorry.”

“Whatever,” growls Kit. “I’m over it. Mama takes care of me; she’s not goin’ nowhere.”

The two of them are quiet for a long time, Craig peaking out from the corner of the curtain to look at the flashing neon signs of downtown New Reno. Kit wants to do something, wants to use her hands.

“Wanna play blackjack?” she asks.

After explaining the rules, Kit grabs the old worn deck Mama got her for her last birthday, and deals. She’s fast with her fingers, doing little tricks where she can. Craig watches with a big smile on his face, giggling when she fumbles the card. He isn’t very good at the game, slow-counting, but Kit can’t really blame him--she was once the same way.

“The trick to being fast is memorizing the different combinations,” she explains. “If you see two face cards, always stay. If you see an ace and a ten, you’ve won. It gets annoying when you have twelve to sixteen, ‘cause the dealer can easily beat you, but if you draw a ten you’re done. That’s where the chance comes in.”

Craig looks down at his two sevens. “Hit me,” he says, though it sounds like a question.

Kit flips a card, watching him examine it, then his face lighting up. “Three sevens! That’s twenty-one!”

“In a real game, you’d win your bet amount. I don’t have nothing to give you, so we’re just playing for bragging rights.”

“Hey, Kit?” Craig asks quietly after another half-hour of playing. “Do you miss your dad?” He looks scared to ask.

“Why?”

“I dunno. I’m worried I’m gonna miss Daddy real bad when he’s gone.”

“Aren’t you gonna live on a ranch? You’ll have lotsa animals to keep you company. We don’t see many brahmin in the city. I seen a coupla dogs, but the bighorners are all a bit further east from here I think.”

“I guess.”

Kit takes the cards out of his hands, shuffling them back into her deck. She runs a finger down the soft edge of the top card, the firmness of the paper gone after hundreds of years.

“Do you miss California?”

Craig nods.

“I don’t know much about it. Mama says she ain’t never seen the ocean. Have you?”

“Just once. We lived in NCR, but we made the trip to San Francisco when Daddy was stationed there last year. We spent most of the time at the base, so we only got to go to the beach the one time. It was… nice. Seeing so much water in one place is weird. I wanted to collect as much as I could to bring back with us, but Mommy said you can’t drink it.”

“I bet the ocean’s fulla rads. If you get too many, you turn into a ghoul, y’know. You ever met one before?”

“A couple.”

“Mama says they’re just like you’n me. That they shouldn't get treated any different ‘cuz of how they look.” Kit deals.

“Hit me.”

Craig frowns at his hand: twenty-three.

“You suck at this,” Kit says.

“I’ve never played before.”

“Still,” she says. “I ain't never seen no one lose as much as you.”

\--

**2279, age 24**

 

There's a woman sitting on a bench, head ducked down as she writes something down on a worn notepad. Boone stops to stare, even when Manny attempts to tug him along to Gomorrah.

The girl looks up, face long and regal. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, heartbreakingly brown. When the two make eye contact, Boone could swear he dies a little bit. The woman’s smile could kill.

He's sliding onto the bench next to her before he can think it through. She’s still smiling, which seems like a good sign.

“Hi,” she says in a silky-smooth voice. “Are you lost?” The woman covers her smile with a dainty hand, like a proper pre-War lady might have. “Who might you be?”

“Corporal Craig Boone, First Recon.” Introducing himself is easy enough, he supposes. Enough CO’s have forgotten his name, enough civilians have asked his rank. It doesn't prepare him for the sound of her laughter, though. He doubts anything could.

“Very professional,” she remarks. “And I like a man in uniform.”

“I try my best, Miss…”

“Carla Avena-Sanchez.” Her thigh is touching his knee. He’s distracted by the blue of her dress. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, soldier.”

They talk for a long time (rather, she talks to him and he listens), until she takes his hand and drags him off to the Ultra-Luxe. Boone isn’t sure where Manny and the rest of his squad went, though Betsy had been adamant she _deserved_ a lap dance.

The White Glove bartender looks at him weird when he orders himself a beer, but slides him one anyways. Carla sips expensive champagne, trails the toe of her high heels up his calf.

“So,” she starts, leaning into him, “what do you think of the city? Isn’t it wonderful?”

“It’s fine. The rest of my squad enjoys blowing off some steam. For me, too loud. I prefer some peace and quiet.”

“Small town type, huh? I suppose I can see the appeal. I like a little excitement, I think. It’s hard to say. Came from California myself, San Fran. Never lived anywhere too quiet.” She ran her index finger through the condensation on the side of her flute. “What about you?”

“California, originally. But I lived on a ranch for most of my life. That’s where I learned to shoot. Signed on with the Republic as soon as my mom was able to run things alright without me.” Boone hazards a look at his drinking companion, whose attention is rapt. She has a pretty little smile on, her eyelashes fluttering attractively. He swallows a mass of nerves down.

Carla finishes her glass, looking over at the blackjack table yearningly. “I’d like to play,” she says. “But I have no idea how.” She laughs. “Not a whole lot of gambling on the coast.”

“I can teach you,” he offers before he realizes he’s opened his mouth. “Someone taught me a long time ago.”

He stands, offering her his arm. She takes it, leaning into his space. “Are you any good?”

“No.”

Carla laughs breathily. “Well then. Whatever could go wrong?”

\--

**2275, age 20**

 

Kit figures it out pretty quick none of the big-leaguers take you seriously if you can't talk proper. She gets more jobs if she enunciates, if she drops her hickish accent. Instead, she listens to the high-class whores talk, listens to their smooth, old money vowels and whiskey whispers.

“Kitty,” her pimp’s brother says. “You're a real proper gal, ain't ya? But you sure do like getting debauched by your daddy’s thick cock, huh?”

For a moment--balancing in his lap, taking him into her--she’s pretty sure this is what victory feels like.

“Yes, daddy. More, daddy.”

She likes sex, likes giving others pleasure and the feeling of a calloused hand on her clit. Yet, when she’s used like this, when the space between her legs begins to _burn_ from oversensitivity, she just feels dirty. Victory may be sweet, she thinks, but what does happiness taste like?

When she’s not huffing Jet or sucking cock, Kit spends it reading. She consumes novels, and magazines. Learning how to be a fatale is easier than she could’ve expected. It only required a specific curl of her vowels, a stretch, and a couple ‘sugar’s and ‘darling’s thrown in for good measure. Artistically, she extends her legs, attracting the high-rollers and debonair gentlemen. The right shade of lipstick is a shot in the chest for rich men, she’s discovered. She’s fond of cherry red.

“Hey, Kitty,” Marco says to her when she lets herself into his apartment. He has a television set in the corner with the screen busted out, but the pimp has always been a collector of odd things. “Have any trouble with Bishop?”

“They don’t like me hanging around the Shark Club, Marco. They have a deal going with Cat’s Paw, apparently.”

Kit would give anything to work at that brothel. If only to get off the chems, it’d be worth it. The only reason she hasn’t made the slip is Marco’s brother: he has deadly aim and a deadlier temper. Marco likes his whores high, makes them easier to control. He only has to wave an inhaler in front of an addict and she’s willing to reopen the scabs on her knees.

“Aw, hell. Next time one’a thems gives ya trouble, sweetheart, tell ‘em they can take it up with Rico an’ me.” He passes her, slapping her ass on his way. “Make sure you meet your quota, babe. You know what happens to the broads that try to stiff me. Now give daddy a kiss.”

He bends down a bit, his cheek next to her mouth. Marco likes lipstick stains, likes folks knowing she belongs to him.

_I don’t belong to anyone._

“Y’know what? Take your fuckin’ _caps_ and your _Jet_ and stuff it, you crumb. I’m sick of this!” She balls a hand into a fist, pushing past him. His grasp on her arm is painful, will likely bruise later.

“Kitty, where’s this comin’ from? Don’t blow your top, toots. Talk to daddy.”

“You aren’t my _daddy,_ Marco. I don’t have a daddy. I’m tired of being treated like a sub-human by a little germ like you. Take this gig and shove it,” she shouts.

He lets go of her arm suddenly. “What’re you planning on doing without me. Gals like you don’t make it in the real world.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re a ditz, Kit, and a professional whore. You’ll get yourself shot on the streets, and you’ll come crawling back to me looking for a bandage. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, honey. I only take care of my own.”

She huffs, storming into her room. Kit grabs a bag, stuffing her clothes and her makeup in. There’s a half-empty package of Lucky Strikes in the dresser that she forgot about. The world around her blurs until she lights up, a long drag clearing her head.

“Fuck,” she mutters. She hefts the bag over her shoulder, looks into the cracked mirror by the door, licks the lipstick off her teeth, and walks back into the living area. Marco’s sitting down, looks up when she enters. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“You’re really leaving? You got a death wish or somethin’?”

Kit doesn’t say anything to him; she rolls her shoulders and slams the door on her way out.

She was wrong. Maybe _this_ is victory. Maybe happiness is waiting down the road.

\--

**2281, age 26**

 

The girl comes into town looking like a mess. Boone sees her a mile away, the cherry of her cigarette lighting up with every inhale. Shoulders weak, arm pressing against a wound on her arm, Boone thinks she’s some sort of desert warrior. The doc fixes her up, and she goes into the motel. She doesn’t come out of her room until Boone’s shift is ending, and he passes her very briefly.

She winks at him. A sly little smile plays on her lips, and if it weren’t for the dark circles under her eyes Boone would think she was a sweet hallucination. The little eyebot she has putters behind her when she enters the dino.

“What a nice girl,” Jeannie May says in a sigh. “That’s the kind of gal who could make herself fit in anywhere.” _Unlike your wife,_ goes unsaid.

Boone grunts and leaves the office, coffee at his lips.

It’s later she approaches him, spooks him during his shift. The leather armour the stranger wears is caked with flaking blood and mud. She has a garbage rifle over her shoulder, some piece of shit made for killing coyotes and geckos.

“You’re Boone, right?” she asks. He doesn’t say anything. The stranger takes this as encouragement, smiling with her soft blue eyes and offering him a cigarette.

“Hate Luckies,” he says.

“Manny said you’re the night guard. He asked me to look into your feral problem. I wanted to ask around and see if anybody knew anything about it.”

Manny was completely insane, sending this girl out there to get herself slaughtered by ghouls. Boone grinds his teeth. “That’s suicide, if you’re planning on going out there alone. Armed as you are, I don’t think you stand much chance.”

A light giggle pollutes the night air. “Ah, what a gentleman. Offering to come and help a girl out? Friends in low places.”

“I’m not your friend. I’m not anybody’s friend.”

“Funny, me neither. I’m not from around here, y’know.”

Boone stops. Thinks. “No. No you're not, are you? Maybe you shouldn't go. Not just yet."

“Why is that?” Her long eyelashes flutter at him, and he’s standing with Carla.

_swollen belly, hair pulled back, shoulders freckled from the sun, she’s so beautiful and so alive, metals cuffs around her wrists and ankles, men paying for things no one has the right to own, he takes the shot_

“I need someone I can trust. You're a stranger. That's a start.”

\--

**2281, age 26**

 

“What’s your favourite colour?” Kit asks her companion from across the campfire.

“We playing twenty question now?”

Kit smiles at him. Boone has a dry wit to him, a flavour she finds herself enjoying a bit too much. She takes off her new beret and holds it over her chest. “Just want to get to know my new ally a bit better, is all. Answer the question.”

He doesn’t seem to think about it. “Blue.”

“I fancy myself red. I always liked the house of diamonds.” The sky is a blanket of flickering neon signs against the dark of Reno’s nightlife. “Ask me something now.”

“Where are you from?” he asks quietly. Through the fire she can see he’s taken off his sunglasses, staring up at the moon.

“New Reno. Hometown of Jet, American capital of hookers, gambling pitstop for folks coming to Vegas.” It hurts to think about, now that she’s so far. No one thinks they’ll miss Hell until they get a chill at night. Then they crave the heat of fiery rivers. “You?”

“Lived all over. Grew up east of Reno.”

Gunshots in the distance. Boone reaches over and grips his rifle, sitting up. After a long period of silence, he sets it back down with a yawn and scrubs his big hands over his face. Kit’s always had a thing for men with good hands.

“Favourite sex position?”

Boone chokes on his own spit. Kit smiles to herself, rolls onto her back. The sniper is still recovering when her giggles bubble up.

“Didn’t know I’d teamed up with a damned comedian,” he mutters, voice gruff.

“Wasn’t a joke. But your _reaction._ Shit, sugar, did I make you feel uncomfortable?”

“I’m not talking about this with you.”

“Aww. We’re a couple of mature adults--”

“One of us is.”

Kit snorts good-naturedly. “Fine. How old are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Same!”

They talk for a long time, innocent non-political non-wife related things. She tells him about the man in the checkered suit, about her miraculous recovery. He looks thoughtfully over at her when she talks about the repairs she’d made to ED-E.

“I know what you're thinking: I don't look like the type of dame who would talk shop.”

“That's not what I was thinking.”

She blinks, sits up. His back is towards her, and the fire’s died down enough she can see the shadow of his shoulderblades through his t-shirt. “You're a hard man to read, Mr. Boone.”

A scoff. “Pride myself on it.”

The beat of silence isn't awkward. It feels full of words unsaid and emotions bouncing from one of them to the other. Kit suddenly realizes she’s found an ally--the first one since her initial entrance to the Mojave. And Boone, who told her straight-up what he wants from her (a bullet for every slave the Legion’s taken, support the only viable democracy left in this shit world, the sweet taste of vengeance), won't betray her. She trusts her gut on that one.

“Man, you're gonna love this story,” she says to him. The even stare he settles on her is exciting in its own right: is this friendship?

\--

**2280, age 25**

 

“Craig, can you help me?”

Boone hums as he shuffles over to Carla’s side, dutifully zipping up the back of her dress. He buries his nose in her hair, peppers the back of her neck with kisses. Carla looks beautiful in blue. It sets off her sepia-coloured skin, makes her look like a sunset. Boone thinks he could look at her forever.

She giggles and swats him. “Stop! You need to sleep. You have work tonight, hon.”

“Have work every night.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Craig. Stop worrying. I’ll still be around when you wake up.”

Boone doesn’t like to sleep. He especially doesn’t like to sleep without Carla’s body curled around his. Sleeping is when his demons come for him, when he’s his most vulnerable. Carla can make him forget, can make the memories of the kids he killed fizzle to almost nothing in the back of his head.

Yet he took the night shift so he _wouldn’t_ have to sleep with Carla around. The woman may as well have a big fat sign on her forehead that says: “Sanctuary” and good places aren’t meant to be tainted. Somehow the idea of her knowing what he’d done seems worse than just living with the nightmares.

She pushes his chest gently, forcing him to sit on the edge of the bed. His face is stomach-level now, and his hands come up to cup her swollen middle. Her slender brown hands join his, warm and soft.

“Not long now,” she says in a hushed voice, like the baby is sleeping. “Little baby María.”

“Or Carla.”

Carla huffs, bops him on his forehead. “We are not naming our children after ourselves. I’ve always thought it was tacky,” she mutters, crossing her arms. “María is a beautiful name.”

A half-smile cracks Boone’s face. “So is Carla.”

“You’re stalling. Go to sleep, Mr. Boone.”

“Alright, Mrs. Boone.”

She’s a silhouette in the open doorway.

“Have a good rest.”

He doesn’t.

\--

**2282, age 27**

 

_“Jesus fuckin’ Christ almighty!”_

“Quit being a baby,” Kit says as she thrusts her finger inside Boone. “I _know_ it doesn’t hurt that bad.”

“I’ve changed my mind. Stop! I can’t do this!”

Kit huffs a sigh and pulls her finger out, wiping it off on the bed sheets. “Typical. Barely flinch when you almost get your arm shot off, but you can’t even handle one little finger up your pucker.”

Boone rolls onto his back, and Kit notes with a smirk that his erection hasn’t flagged. Panting, he says, “It doesn’t hurt. It’s just _weird._ God didn’t intend for things to go back up there like that.”

“God didn’t intend for me to eat your asshole, but I didn’t see you complaining then.”

A flush spreads all the way down his chest, and he groans into his hands. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again.

“What is it, sweetheart? I’m not mad. Just a little disappointed--I cut my fingernails for this.”

Boone drops his hands completely and leans forwards to kiss her. It’s short, and tastes like his sweat. He keeps his forehead pressed to hers for a moment, his eyes searching.

“I love you,” he says, reverently.

Kit swallows. Boone’s said it before; sometimes he pants it after jolting awake from a nightmare, sometimes grunted during sex, or muffled in the pillows early in the morning. But there’s something about his eyes that catches her.

“Thank you,” she chokes out. For whatever reason the words get stuck in her throat. Kit doesn’t think she’s _ever_ told someone she loves them. Not her parents, not her ex-lovers and clients, not her friends. She thinks she does love Boone, but somehow saying it out loud gives her a weakness, something for him to exploit.

_He won’t betray you._

There was once a long period in Kit’s life when she didn’t have anything. She came to the Mojave with nothing but the clothes on her back and a dinky little pistol, looking for _something._ And now she has everything she’s ever dreamed of: a home, good friends, respect, and a man who would storm through Hell and back again to keep her safe.

“Iloveyoutoo.”

Boone pulls back from the spot he’d been kissing on her throat, genuine surprise on his face. It takes a moment for the smile to settle in, and it feels like a cool wind blowing against sweaty skin. The relief Kit feels is phenomenal, a weight lifted off her spirit.

Grinning at him, Kit wiggles her way down his body, takes him into her hand.

“I’ll show you just how much, if you want.”

“Yeah, that’s--that’d be okay with me.”

\--

**2281, age 26**

 

Boone doesn’t know when he fell in love with Kit Ashbourne. He thinks maybe he fell for _parts_ of her first--the curve of her smile, the freckles on the back of her neck, her perfume. (“This is what all the expensive whores in New Reno would wear,” she tells him, flashing an old bottle. “Little bit of home, y’know?”)

Mostly he lets her handle her own business, watches over as her silent guardian. He’s quietly pleased with her decisions, every time she goes out of her way to support the Republic. The two of them take potshots at the Legionaries at Cottonwood Cove, free a family of slaves. They take back Nelson, _save_ the prisoners instead of performing mercy kills. Boone never expected he would learn from Kit, not when he first joined her.

She makes him not want to die anymore, gives him a purpose. Being with Kit feels like he’s doing right by the world, creating a wasteland he can be proud of. Young families won’t have to go through what his did, not if he can help it.

Kit’s rifle jams in the middle of a firefight. They were meant to be taking synchronized shots, take out two Fiends simultaneously. But her gun just clicks, and he hears her curse as he takes out the remaining enemy.

Boone isn’t proud of how he loses it.

“I told you to clean your rifle last night.”

“I was going to! But I just--I got distracted.”

“By getting your brains fucked out by some lowlife in the Khans, yeah. I know. I _heard.”_

Her face hardens, and she steps away from him, gravel crunching under her boots. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

Boone breathes in, out. “What would’ve happened if I wasn’t here? Or if I didn’t make that second shot? That Fiend could’ve rammed right over here and scalped your sorry ass.” He looks away from her, already regretting lashing out at her. “You know guns sometimes explode if they aren’t maintained?”

“What do you want me to say, Boone? I’m sorry? ‘Cause I ain’t. You’re making it real hard to feel anything but angry.”

Boone clenches his jaw and stares at the ground. In, out. “No, it’s--” He doesn’t like the way his voice sounds. Emotion has pooled into it, soaked it so much that his preferred monotone isn’t even audible. “Let’s just go. Let’s go.”

He doesn’t try to explain that if he loses Kit, he loses everything.

\--

**2263, age 8**

 

“Where’s the kid?” the man says to Mama. Kit can see him through the crack in the closet door. He was a big gun and a mean-looking face. His leather jacket has spikes on the shoulders, a skull patch sewed haphazardly on the collar.

“Dunno what you’re talkin’ ‘bout. Don’t got no children here, ain’t never seen none livin’ in this here building, neither.” Mama’s voice wavers a lot, her hand reaching behind her to grip the lantern sitting on the end table.

“Look, lady. We don’t wanna hurt _you_ none, but we need to meet a quota. We asked around, and everyone says you got a daughter, a real looker if they’re to be believed. So either everyone in this shit town is a liar, or you’re sitting on a potential goldmine.”

“The Slaver’s Guild is going after kids? Just when you think scum couldn’t get any more disgusting.” She actually spits, and the man just sighs, looks at his accomplice by the door.

“Adults, turns out, don’t respond well to… ‘reprogramming,’let’s say. But kids? Not much smarter than dogs. Plus, cost less to feed.”

Mama spits on his shoes again, and his lip curls.

Kit’s voice hitches when the man steps into Mama’s space, face inches from hers. “I didn’t realize strippers had such big balls,” he says, teeth glowing as he snarls at her. “You’d think someone’d notice that, with your nasty cooch hangin’ out all night long.”

Kit sees Mama’s knuckles go white around her grip on the lantern, then it’s swinging through the air. It clocks the man right in the temple, glass shattered. The sound of metal connecting with his skull resonates throughout Kit’s whole body. She feels it in her toes.

There is hardly time to realize what just happened before the man has Mama by the throat, pressed up against the wall. They’re right next to the closet, and Kit worries the man can hear her heartbeat. She holds her breath, tries not move.

Blood drips down the man’s face, splatters on the ground. Kit’s never seen anything that shade of red before. When he looks over his shoulder to his friend, the other man shakes his head and turns away. The man with spiked shoulders cackles a laugh. “You fucked up, lady. You _really fucked up.”_

A gunshot goes off, and the sound of Mama’s limp body sliding down the wall is almost enough for Kit to scream, but she doesn’t. Kit doesn’t make a sound.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” the man with spikes says, nudging Mama with his boot. “What a waste of goddamn time.”

\--

**2281, age 26**

 

Boone waits for Kit on the Strip, aware of the crowd of confused people gathering around him. He’s sure some tried to communicate with him, but he can’t focus on anything but the worry eating him inside.

 _She’s meeting with Mr. House all alone. What if the back of her head is the last I’ll ever see of her?_ he thinks, worrying his lip with his teeth.

Boone tries not to let his expression give away how relieved he is when she comes back out. She flashes him a smile, a brief little private thing meant just for him. Heart swelling, Boone takes her heel as she parts the crowd.

“What’d he say?” he asks, curiousity getting the better of him.

“He wants his delivery completed. I talked him into a little raise if I get the job done.”

“We going after Benny?”

Kit laughs, head thrown back. “Naw, I was thinking we should have a night on the town. What d’ya say, Boone? Just the two of us.”

“It’s always just the two of us.”

She gasps mockingly. “Don’t let ED-E hear you! You’ll hurt its feelings!”

Boone can admit he cracks a smile, his amusement forcing one corner of his mouth up. “Alright. Lead the way.”

“Can you tell I’m excited? My first night in Vegas! Can’t wait to sucker the casinos out of their money. I play a mean hand of blackjack, wouldn’t you know.”

Kit’s buzzing by the time they enter the Tops. She audibly gasps as she looks around, then twirls in place and _glows_ at him.

“This is _beautiful!_ So much better than Reno! That place was a pile of shit next to _this._ Isn’t it wonderful?”

Boone finds himself nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, there’s something magic about Vegas, huh?”

She flirts with the frontman, Swank, gets herself some free caps and information by batting her lashes at him. She leaves a lipstick print on his collar in return, wiggling her fingers as she strides to the tables. Boone feels her grip his elbow before they reach the stairs. Looking down, he can see her squinting across the floor. He follows her gaze and sees a man with his back to them, surrounded by guards.

“It’s him,” she says, suddenly quiet. “That’s the guy who shot me in the head.”

“Keep your head down,” Boone insists, tugging her beret further down her head so it casts a shadow over her face. It looks completely wrong, but it obscures her features.

Kit laughs hoarsely, shrugging. “Doubt he’d recognize me. Wasn’t at my best when we met the first time. I’ve cleaned up quite a bit, before I met even you. Gained some weight, learned how to dress myself.”

“No one could ever forget a woman like Kit Ashbourne.”

Even though he feels her gaze on him, he doesn’t acknowledge it. Boone reaches over for her hand and drags her to the second floor. “Gotta get you some chips if you want to impress me with your gambling skills.”

“Bet I could teach you a thing or two, honey.”

“I don’t make bets I know I’ll lose.”

\--

**2282, age 27**

 

There’s something nice about the word ‘hero.’ Kit used to read stories about knights saving princesses, about revolutions, about people sticking their neck out for others. _Hero is synonymous with hope,_ Mama said once. _Always do right by yourself, and by those that matter, and the future can look bright._ Mama was a wise woman.

There’s an NCR poster with her face on it. She’s lit by radioactive glow, hair pulled back military-style. There aren’t any freckles on her face, but her lips are bright red and twisted into an alluring grin. Her eyes are unrealistically bright blue, the colour of a _Nuka Quantum._

 _Go the extra mile,_ the slogan is. _Even those born in ashes can become heroes!_

Soldiers and officers have a look of recognition when they see her now. Blushing privates tell her they have her poster in their locker, next to their pin-ups. Though she’s a civilian, she receives more salutes than she knows what to do with. Colonel Oliver tells her the president would like to meet her personally, that he wants to fly her out to California so she can receive a medal. She refuses politely and heads back to her room in the Lucky 38.

The people in Freeside look torn between being happy that Vegas has stability, and disappointment that they lost their freedom. (Kit knows that independence isn’t always for the best, that sometimes well-meaning folks turn their city into a depraved, savage place run by chems and gambling and violence if they don’t have any guidance. New Reno is such a place, and Vegas was on the brink.) People congratulate her regardless.

Boone waits for her in the master bedroom, hands her a flute of champagne and a crumpled package of Lucky Strikes. While the NCR paraded Kit around after their victory, Boone headed back to the Strip. While she was giving a rousing speech at Camp Golf, he was taking Rex out for a walk. While she was on the Dam, looking across the lake at the sunlit horizon, Boone was raiding the casino floor for more cigarettes.

It’s nice, having someone to come home to. It all feels so domestic. The bed is warm and soft, and his heartbeat is steady under her palm. Kit doesn’t know how long this will last, just having him by her side. She thinks she could stay here forever, if there were no responsibilities.

“What do think about this? We could open up the casino floor, make some caps. You ever wanted to own your own business?”

“No,” he says quietly.

“I think of myself as the entrepreneurial type. I’m good with money, y’know.”

“No, you aren’t. You’re good at tricking people into overpaying you.”

Kit hum, shifts so she’s pressed closer to his side. Boone’s hand comes down and rests on her shoulder. “Perfect for a casino.”

She feels his laugh more than hears it. He sobers quickly. “There are still Legionaries out there. As long as a single one of those bastards is still alive, my job’s not done.”

“Okay. So when do you want to go?”

He stiffens, pulls away from her to see her face. His eyes search hers for a couple seconds. “You’d wanna come with me?”

Kit pecks his throat, delights in the way his grip tightens on her shoulder. “We’re partners. I love you. I don’t want you to get yourself killed out there without a spotter.” She runs her bare toes up his calf, wraps her legs around his possessively. “And you’ve said I’m the best spotter you’ve ever had.”

His hand cups the side of her face, and she wriggles around until she’s laying on top of him.

“We can come home. When we’re done. We’ll open the casino up, you can get all dolled up. When Kit Ashbourne walks back into Vegas, people will know. People will _know.”_

“Go the extra mile,” she tells him. He rolls his eyes.

“That shit’s gone right to your head.”

“Well,” she says, “can you blame me, baby? I’m a hero.”

He kisses her firmly. “Yeah. You are.”

**Author's Note:**

> This thing got away from me, dudes. I read it over probably a million times, but if you catch any mistakes, lemme know! 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed this pretentious mess??
> 
>  
> 
> [Buy me a coffee!](http://ko-fi.com/I3I59IAV)


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